Page 56 of Claiming His Lost Duchess
Joan felt warmth bloom in her chest at the words, even as a small voice in her mind whispered that Isobel was seeing what she wanted to see rather than the complicated reality of their marriage.
On the third day of their visit, the household was thrown into delighted chaos when the sound of multiple carriages announced an even larger family reunion. Joan watched from the sunroom window as Graham strode across the courtyard with obvious joy to greet the new arrivals, his face alight with a happiness that transformed his usually serious expression into something radiant.
“Margaret! Catherine!” he called out, his voice carrying across the grounds with unrestrained delight.
Joan observed the reunion from her place by the window, her heart warming at the obvious deep affection between the siblings, despite the nervousness over the arrival of even more guests. Margaret, the Duchess of Windermoor, proved to be a tall, elegant woman who moved with the kind of natural authority that suggested she had been born to command respect. Her auburn hair was arranged in a sophisticated style that spoke of London fashion, and her traveling dress was cut in the latest mode, but there was nothing cold or intimidating about her manner as she embraced her brother with obvious love.
Catherine, the Duchess of Rosehall, was quite different from her older sister – smaller in stature and rounder in figure, with auburn hair that caught the afternoon sun and created a halo effect around her gentle features. Her merry eyes reminded Joan strongly of Sophia, and there was something immediately welcoming about her smile that put Joan at ease even before they were properly introduced.
Joan made it outside in time to witness Graham being scolded by his older sisters.
“Graham Lennox!” Margaret scolded as she released him from their embrace, though her tone was more affectionate than truly reproachful, even as she swatted his arm. “Getting married without inviting your sisters! The absolute scandal of it! I could hardly believe it when Lysander told me, but when Mother wrote to tell us she had also heard about it – oh, you cheeky devil.”
“Aye,” Catherine added, though her voice sparkled with barely suppressed laughter rather than genuine anger. “And after wewaited so patiently for you to find yourself a wife. We had bets going among ourselves about whether you'd die a lonely bachelor, married to nothing but your account books and estate documents!”
Graham's laughter rang out across the courtyard, rich and warm and completely unguarded. “I couldn't wait any longer,” he said simply. “Not after searching for her for so long, not after all those years of wondering if I'd ever see her again. When I found her, I knew she was truly mine, and there was nothing more to do than make it official immediately before anything could separate us again.”
Joan felt her cheeks burn at his words, even though she understood they were performed for his family's benefit rather than spoken from genuine feeling. The way he spoke of their marriage – as if it had been a desperate love story spanning years rather than a practical arrangement born of necessity – never failed to create a complex mixture of pleasure and discomfort in her chest.
The introductions that followed were overwhelming in the best possible way. Margaret swept Joan into an embrace that smelled of expensive French perfume, her smile genuine and welcoming as she murmured words of acceptance and joy at finally meeting the woman who had captured her brother's heart. There was something immediately trustworthy about Margaret, a straightforward warmth that suggested she said exactly what she meant without artifice or hidden meanings.
Catherine was even more effusive in her welcome, declaring with infectious enthusiasm that she had been positively desperate to meet the mysterious woman who had managed to make their serious, work–obsessed brother smile like a man who had discovered the secret to happiness itself.
But it was when the children were brought forward that Joan's heart truly clenched with overwhelming emotion. Margaret's three children – Eleanor, a serious–faced girl of perhaps ten with her mother's hair and intelligent eyes; James, a boy of eight whose mischievous grin promised future adventures; and Rufus, barely six but already showing signs of the family's characteristic determination – were all perfectly mannered and curious about their new aunt and cousin.
Catherine's four children proved to be more boisterous but equally charming. Robert, the eldest at twelve, had inherited his mother's auburn hair and easy smile. Mary, named after her grandmother, was ten and possessed of a quiet dignity that reminded Joan of herself at that age. Anne, eight years old, had the kind of irrepressible energy that suggested she was always on the verge of some grand adventure. Thomas, the youngest at five, clung to his mother's skirts but watched the proceedings with bright, intelligent eyes.
What struck Joan most forcefully, with an impact that was almost physical in its intensity, was that several of the children shared Sophia's distinctive coloring. The auburn hair that marked Sophia as unmistakably Graham's daughter was present in varying shades among her newly discovered cousins, creating a visible tapestry of family connection that took Joan's breath away.
“Look, Mama!” Sophia whispered with barely contained excitement, tugging on Joan's skirt with eager fingers. “They have hair like mine! Like Papa's! We all look like we belong together!”
“Yes, darling,” Joan whispered back, her throat tight with unexpected emotion that threatened to spill over into tears. The simple joy in her daughter's voice, the wonder at discovering this visible proof of belonging, was almost more than Joan's heart could bear. “You're part of a very special family indeed.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
The rest of the afternoon was spent in the gardens, where Catherine had enthusiastically suggested they hold an impromptu celebration to better acquaint everyone with each other. The setting could not have been more perfect – the vast gardens stretching in all directions, filled with the colors and scents of late summer, the ancient trees providing dappled shade that created a sense of natural warmth around their gathering.
Blankets were spread across the luscious lawn by the efficient household staff, creating comfortable seating areas that encouraged intimate conversation while maintaining the sense of a unified celebration. The kitchen, under Mrs. Wintersdown’s capable direction, had somehow managed to produce an impressive array of refreshments on remarkably short notice – delicate sandwiches cut into perfect triangles, fruit tarts, fresh scones still warm from the oven, and pots of jam and cream that had been cooling in the dairy that very morning.
The Scots, Joan discovered with fascination and growing delight, had brought with them knowledge of several traditional games that had the children shrieking with laughter within minutes of their introduction. The games seemed to involve a great deal of running and shouting, with rules that appeared to change depending on who was explaining them and teams that formed and reformed with the fluid logic of childhood imagination.
Joan found herself drawn into the festivities almost against her will, her natural reserve crumbling in the face of such infectious enthusiasm. Soon, she was breathless and laughing, her carefully arranged hair coming loose from its pins and her cheeks flushed with exertion and joy, when Graham appeared at her side during a brief pause in the activities.
“Enjoying yourself,mo ghràdh?” he murmured, the Gaelic endearment rolling off his tongue with the ease of long practice, his dark eyes dancing with mischief and something deeper that made her stomach flutter with awareness.
The afternoon light caught the auburn locks of his hair, and Joan could see the way activities had brought color to his cheeks, making him appear younger and more carefree than she had ever seen him. There was grass on his sleeve and dirt on his hands from joining in the children's games with wholehearted enthusiasm, and she realized with sudden clarity that this was Graham as he was meant to be – not the serious duke weighed down by responsibility, but a man surrounded by family and free to simply enjoy their company.
“Your family is wonderfully mad,” she replied, not entirely meaning it as a compliment but finding that the words came out filled with warmth and affection nonetheless.
Graham grinned, the expression transforming his face with boyish charm. “Mad is certainly one way to describe them. Growing up, there was never a quiet moment in our house – always some game or adventure or crisis that required immediate attention.”
As the games resumed, Joan noticed with growing awareness that Graham seemed to find excuse after excuse to position himself near her. When the teams were divided for the next round of activity, they found themselves on opposite sides, but throughout the competition, he managed to be wherever she was. When she stumbled over an uneven patch of ground, his hand was immediately there to steady her, warm and strong against her elbow. When she needed help rising from where she had been sitting on one of the blankets, he appeared as if by magic to offer his assistance, his fingers lingering just a moment longer than necessary as he pulled her to her feet.
Each contact sent little jolts of awareness through her nerves, like tiny lightning strikes that illuminated parts of herself she had thought permanently dark. Joan realized with startling and somewhat frightening clarity that she couldn't resist her husband's pull on her senses, couldn't maintain the careful distance she had tried to preserve between them.
For the first time in her entire life, she felt truly safe in a man's presence – not just physically protected, but emotionally securein a way that allowed her to let down her guard completely. The realization was both liberating and terrifying, opening up possibilities she had never allowed herself to imagine while simultaneously making her more vulnerable than she had ever been.
She was watching Graham swing young Thomas around in circles, the boy's delighted laughter ringing across the garden while the other children clapped and cheered – some of them demanding a turn – when Margaret appeared at her side with the silent grace that seemed to be a family trait.
